


blood sticks, sweat drips

by MareisuinShihaku



Category: Fame: The Musical - Margoshes/Levy/Fernandez
Genre: F/M, Sexual Tension, like.... a lot of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 17:28:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5936809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MareisuinShihaku/pseuds/MareisuinShihaku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The burger never did anything wrong,” he says. “How would you like it if I threw your fries at your face?”</p><p>or, how two worst enemies realize that they are just hormonal teenagers who want each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	blood sticks, sweat drips

**Author's Note:**

_Broke your jaw once before_

_I spilt your blood upon the floor_

_You broke my leg in return_

_So let's sit back and watch the bed burn_

_(Kiss With a Fist - Florence + the Machine)_

 

 

“Do you think Iris would let Tyrone ditch us?” Lambchops says idly, dipping a fry in some ketchup. She pops it in her mouth, staring at Goody the whole time, looking bored. Goody is fairly sure this is one of her intimidation tactics, but he’s not about to fall for that this time.

“Yes,” he replies, then shoves a burger in his mouth so he doesn’t have to talk anymore. Having a conversation with Lambchops inevitably turns into a screaming match, fists flying and all, and he’d really prefer not to do it in a public place. The fries are terrible, yeah, but the burger isn’t half-bad.

Lambchops looks at him still. Goody ignores her with practiced ease and sighs internally. He can imagine Schlomo, now, probably off having coffee with Carmen and making doe-eyes at her, or maybe making out at the back of some cinema. No wonder he’d refused the offer. He must’ve known this sort of thing was going to happen—

“Oh, my God,” Goody says, words a little distorted around the burger. He sets it down on its paper and stares into space. “Oh my God,” he repeats.

Lambchops eats five fries at once. “Did you have an epiphany while making love to your burger?” she asks mildly. That kind of sentence isn’t even surprising anymore.

“Not now,” Goody says halfheartedly. He’d make a better comeback later—now he’s more focused on hating Schlomo with all his might. If this is payback for all the times he’d made kissy faces while he and Carmen were in the same room… well, he still didn’t deserve it. He could have just dunked him in a pool full of sharks and it would have been the same pain. That’s what Lambchops is, after all—a shark, nothing at all like what her name is.

“Don’t _not now_ me like I’m not important, King,” Lambchops taunts, lips pulled back in a vicious smirk. Goody knows that smirk—it’s the “I am so ready to take you on right now, in words or fists—I’m gonna win either way” smirk. It’s so infuriating he wants to punch it right off her face.

“Are you just realizing how little your actual importance is in the world, _Grace?_ ” Goody retorts, chewing on his burger while maintaining the glare between them levelly. Anger sparks up in Lambchops’ eyes, and Goody hides his satisfied grin—no one calls her Grace. It’s a surefire way of riling her up, getting her ready for a fistfight. Schlomo can wait—right now, a little brawl with his favorite archenemy would be great.

Lambchops calmly stands up, popping another couple fries into her mouth before saying, “Didn’t your mother ever teach you about respecting people’s names, Goodman?”

Goody follows suit, standing up and placing his half-eaten burger back on its wrapper. The burger doesn’t need to suffer. “She did. She also told me that people who don’t deserve respect don’t _get_ respect,” he sneers.

Lambchops grabs his burger before he can react and flings it at his face. He ducks out of the way just in time, the poor snack splattering onto the wall behind him. A piece of lettuce lands on an unfortunate old lady, who stands stock-still, staring at the two of them. Goody shoots Lambchops a disdainful stare. “The burger never did anything wrong,” he says. “How would you like it if I threw your fries at your face?”

Before he can do so, though, Lambchops has already dropped the last three fries in her mouth, chewing them slowly and carefully, as if Goody can see the food disappear down her throat and into her stomach. “I guess I’ll never know now,” she says, voice teasing—and not the friendly teasing, either, more like the teasing that comes right before a gun goes off.

“Ma’am, sir,” an employee suddenly pipes up, wincing when two pairs of rage-filled eyes turn to look at him. “If you’re going to fight… would you please take it outside? You’re bothering the other customers.”

“Sure,” Goody says, at the same time Lambchops throws her head back and laughs like she’s just heard the funniest joke in the world. (Then again, she’s once said the funniest joke in the world would be Goody being stronger than her, so Goody supposes she’s just heard the second funniest joke in the world.) “What are you laughing about, Gracie?” he growls.

“You,” she snarls right back, almost like she’s baring her teeth. A shark going in for the kill—it’s not hard to imagine her being able to smell fear. “Are we bothering the other customers? It’s not like I’m throwing burgers at them, am I?”

“Young lady—” the old woman starts, but Lambchops shoots her a look so poisonous the woman backs up, looking scandalized. “Teenagers these days,” she says loudly, walking out of the restaurant with as much dignity as she can muster. The lettuce is still on her head. Goody bites the inside of his cheek—now is not the right time to laugh. He knows when it’s appropriate, unlike the crazy girl standing in front of him, who’s grinning madly for seemingly no apparent reason.

The employee looks very, very uncomfortable. “Please,” he says, and Lambchops casually makes her way past him, surreptitiously leaving a twenty dollar bill on the table. Even if he doesn’t exactly want to look like a lost dog trailing after its owner, Goody follows her anyway. She’d probably murder someone if she doesn’t have either him or Schlomo to look after her twenty four-seven.

“How could you do that?” he demands immediately as soon as they exit out onto the street. The old woman isn’t far away, and Goody sees her frown disapprovingly at them in his peripheral vision. He does his best to ignore her.

“Do what?” Lambchops asks, blinking innocently back at him. If he were a dog, he’d have his hackles raised right now—a sadistic smile is dancing on her face.

“ _Throw my burger_ ,” he almost yells. “It was actually good! Unlike your shitty fries, and that thing was more expensive. The burger was a bystander!”

“Go fuck yourself,” she snaps, smile disappearing and a scowl replacing it. “You’re the one who started it. Maybe if you hadn’t called me by my fucking name your precious little burger would still be alive.”

Goody is about to tell her to go jump off a cliff and do a barrel roll while she’s at it, but his phone rings at that exact moment. He answers it, pointedly looking away from Lambchops’ self-satisfied smirk. “Yeah?” he grumbles.

“Goody? Are you alright?”

“Schlomo? Oh my God, you piece of shit, I hate you so much,” Goody gasps, gripping his phone so tight it’s a wonder it doesn’t crumple in his grip. “Hey, Lamb, I’m leaving. You can find your own way back,” he calls over his shoulder, but Lambchops is already wandering away, hands stuffed in the pockets of her jacket. He allows himself a moment to curse her to the depths of hell before returning to his phone. “Schlomo, what the _fuck_ is this all about?”

“What’s all about?” Schlomo asks, trying to sound innocent. It fails, of course, because Schlomo’s utter shit at lying. “How’d it go with Lambchops, mm?”

“You knew this would happen.” Goody hadn’t exactly brought more than a single dollar, so he figures he’ll just walk back to his flat. Exercise, and also so he can stop thinking about Lambchops and how much he wants to punch her. “Are you—Are you trying to _set us up?_ ”

Schlomo doesn’t respond for a while, and Goody wonders why for about half a second, because he hears a familiar giggle from the other end. “Is Carmen there? Are you calling me in the middle of your date? Schlomo Metzenbaum, you are the worst boyfriend ever.”

“Hi, Goody! Try not to murder anyone over there,” Carmen greets.

Schlomo sighs and says, “ _She’s_ the one who wanted to call you. If I’m worst boyfriend, she’s worst girlfriend.”

“A match made in heaven,” Carmen agrees.

Despite himself, Goody cracks a smile. They’re so smitten by each other that it almost hurts. “Great to hear you guys getting along real well and all, but do you want to give me an answer as to _why_ you tried to set me up with Grace-motherfucking-Lamb?”

“Don’t call her that,” Schlomo immediately says.

“What, a motherfucker?”

“No, Grace.” Schlomo pauses for a bit—Goody can hear Carmen’s voice in the background—before continuing. “You guys have the worst sexual tension. Like, ever. Just saying.”

“How would you know?”

“Lamb just called Carmen. She’s practically raving about you.” Schlomo grins. Goody doesn’t see it, but he’s two-hundred-percent sure he’s grinning. “Real flattering words here. ‘Burger-sexual’ and ‘eye molester’ are just two.”

“ _Eye molester?_ ” Goody chokes out. When he’d stopped in the middle of the street, people had given him annoyed looks, but now, they’re just staring at him like he’s lost his mind, which is not so far from the truth, really. Goody clears his throat and keeps walking, even if it’s starting to sound like a terribly bad idea because he’s sure he’ll walk straight into a post if he tries walking and talking at the same time. Lowering his voice, he asks, “Where the _fuck_ did she get _eye molester?_ ”

“You kept looking at her eyes,” Carmen says. “So romantic. Did your eyes make love?”

“Only my burger deserves that,” Goody says bitterly. “You know, the one she _threw halfway across the restaurant_. Now it’s dead and I can’t even give it a proper burial.”

“Don’t cry too much. You didn’t bring tissue,” Schlomo advises.

* * *

Here’s a fun fact: when Schlomo’s sad, his playing is going to be so perfect it’d feel stilted. Goody knows it sounds like that because he’ll think too much about his playing to get his mind off whatever is bothering him, which is why it comes out almost emotionless. When he’s happy, it’s almost like his fingers dance across the keyboard with little to no effort, and the melody could be riddled with mistakes and it’d still sound wonderful.

It was Goody’s first clue that Schlomo wasn’t feeling as sad as he was pretending to look. His playing had been practically exquisite. When rehearsal ended, though, he deflated in his seat and stared forlornly at the piano keys.

Here’s another fun fact: Carmen is a lot more observant than others think she is, especially if it concerns Schlomo. Goody can vaguely remember when Schlomo had looked and behaved almost exactly the same as he did everyday and yet Carmen had somehow found out that he hadn’t been feeling well because of a mild cold. Her observation skills are almost as good as her singing skills, which is saying something.

It was Goody’s second clue that Carmen wasn’t quite as insensitive as she was trying to look. She’d spared Schlomo a single glance, smiled just the tiniest bit, and skipped out of the music room with a second thought.

Despite all this, Goody hadn’t caught on, which is probably why he was watching a cheap musical with, of all people, Lambchops.

It wasn’t like he had done it on purpose or anything, God forbid. He’d waited until Lambchops had packed up and left before approaching Schlomo, who—it seemed so _obvious_ now—was dawdling around by his stuff. “You alright, man?” he’d asked.

Schlomo looked up, a well-practiced look of dejection on his face. Schlomo is _terrible_ at acting and lying, everyone knows that, so it hadn’t occurred to Goody to doubt his friend for a single second. The look had just been so realistic compared to all the other times he had seen Schlomo try to lie that he hadn’t thought to think it was all an act.

“Fine, Goody.” He smiled, then, a very obviously fake smile that was, also very obviously, now that Goody looked back, scripted. “Just… you know.”

“No, I don’t know.” Then he’d sat down on Lambchops’ usual seat on the floor, just to spite her. He could almost imagine her eyebrow twitching in irritation. “Tell your bro all about it, why don’t you? Is it girl problems or something?” He’d thought about how Carmen had flounced out of the room, and wondered if it had something to do with him. Now he knew.

Schlomo just smiled bitterly again. Goody has no idea how many times he must have had to practice this with, like, Nick or Serena, because wow, it had been a giant improvement from the Schlomo who couldn’t say ‘yes’ when a teacher asked him if he had done his homework. “I was really looking forward to watching this musical… you know, the one our local theatre is doing?”

“Yeah, _Rent?_ ”

“That one.” Schlomo dug out two tickets from his pocket, slightly crumpled but still clearly usable. “I wanted to go with Carmen today, but it looks like she had plans that she hadn’t told me about, so now I’ve got an extra and I don’t really… wait.” He brightened. Goody doesn’t know whether or not that had been an act, too, or if it was genuine. He’s starting to lean more towards the genuine part. “How about we go?”

“Uh, me?” Goody stared at him. “I’ve watched _Rent_ , like, a million times.”

“But they say this one’s going to be great! Why not? And it’s free, you like that.”

Goody had been about to say no, which would have been the wisest decision he would have made for the entire century, but he’d remembered how Schlomo had looked so disappointed just minutes ago (though he knows _now_ that that had been expert acting), and found he couldn’t reject the poor guy. So he’d said yes, stupidly enough. Schlomo had cheered and set a time, and told him he might be a tad late because he needed to catch up on some homework. And Goody had agreed.

It turns out that Schlomo had done the same thing to Lambchops. The fact that their seats were right next to each other, and they were all the way at the back where just about no one else was, didn’t help.

“ _You_ ,” Goody had said, almost falling off his seat when he spotted Lambchops coming over his way.

Her hand stopped halfway to her mouth, holding on to some cheesy popcorn kernels. “Oh. It’s you,” she’d said, like seeing her band mate and coincidentally her worst enemy in a musical wasn’t anything new. She stood there for a moment, like she was thinking whether this was worth it or not, before she sat down on the seat next to Goody. “Just don’t talk to me and we’ll be fine,” she said.

“Excuse me?” Goody gawked, but Lambchops had already set the popcorn next to her and was pointedly ignoring him. Goody huffed indignantly and followed suit.

That’s where he is now. You know, trying not to make comments about the play under his breath lest Lambchops think he’s trying to make _conversation_. Perish the thought.

“What thought?” she suddenly asks around a mouthful of popcorn, and Goody almost punches her. He hadn’t thought he’d said that out loud. Apparently, Lambchops catches on, because she grins, showing dangerously-sharp teeth. “I wonder what you’re thinking about, huh? You feeling frisky because it’s dark in here, King?”

“Oh, no. Perish _that_ thought,” he snaps, slightly thankful that it’s dark and mostly unoccupied in their area. If he blushes (not that he _will_ , of course, certainly not), no one will see, and if they get into a fistfight, no one will notice. It’s actually quite convenient.

Lambchops cackles madly. “It’s the perfect atmosphere for a little date. Dark place, at the back of the cinema sharing popcorn… what about all those times our hands will _accidentally_ brush together?” She pauses. Goody opens his mouth to say something until she continues, “Then again, if they did brush together, I’d snap all your fingers to pieces. No pressure or anything.”

“I was just about to say the same thing,” Goody replies honestly. He’s nothing but truthful.

She shrugs, grinning lazily. For some reason, his heart skips a beat or two, or perhaps several, and he has no idea why, but if it’s because of— _no_ , he won’t say it. Because it’s impossible, of course, improbable, incomprehensible, never going to happen.

Just to annoy her, he dips his hand in her popcorn bag and shovels the cheesy kernels in his mouth. Lambchops rolls her eyes and mutters something about drumsticks and how she’d love to shove one up his ass right now. Such fond memories, really. Then he realizes the popcorn is actually half-decent, not the terrible stuff they used to sell. Or maybe Lambchops had threatened the guy by the counter to make it edible—Goody could imagine it.

He reaches in the bag to get more, and, of course, because the universe hates them, Lambchops does too. There is a very quick pause, where their fingers momentarily touch each other’s, and their eyes lock with one another. Then Lambchops reaches out with her cheesy hand and smears it right on his face. “ _What the fuck?_ ” Goody shrieks.

“You asked for it,” Lambchops says calmly, jumping out of her seat to avoid Goody’s lunge. “And snapping your fingers would be too much effort right now.”

“I’m going to murder you with your own popcorn,” Goody vows, standing up as well and making sure the popcorn hadn’t spilled. He wouldn’t want more collateral damage like the last time food had been involved in their spats. “No, really. Don’t you fucking laugh at me, Lamb, I can do so many things with one of these.” He lifts his pointer finger for emphasis—there’s a single popcorn kernel stuck on it.

Lambchops laughs right at his face anyway, the little fucker. “Do you know how dirty that sounds, especially when we’re at the back of a theatre where no one else is paying attention to us? It sounds like you’re getting ready for some food porn.”

“I’m paying attention,” a little kid speaks up from three rows in front of them. “What does porn mean?”

An older woman, most likely his mother, shushes him and gives Goody and Lambchops a scandalized look before turning back to watch the play. Lambchops just laughs harder, probably to spite the woman. She does that. Goody kind of likes it.

No, he doesn’t, he thinks immediately, feeling a blush creep up his neck. Oh, God, now he’s _blushing_. How much worse can this get? By the end of the musical, he might as well have switched genders and turned into a blushing virgin. Which he is _not_ , of course. Probably.

“What are you all flushed for? Don’t tell me you really are Schlomo,” Lambchops says, a little calmer now as she takes her seat, looking down at the popcorn bag to see how much is left. “Christ, man, how much did you eat? I can’t have finished that much already.” She tosses some in her mouth anyway.

When he’s still standing here awkwardly, staring at her and trying not to think about how he had just thought of how he _likes_ a part of her, she gives him a raised eyebrow. “I didn’t throw popcorn at you or anything, did I? And go wash your face, you look ridiculous.”

“Right,” Goody says, before practically flying to the bathroom. Thankfully, it’s the middle of the play and no one else is in there—he washes his face, feeling the heat practically emanating from it, and stares at himself in the mirror. “I do not like her,” he says, clearly and properly. “I do not like her.”

He’s not totally sure if that had worked, but at the very least, his face isn’t burning bright red anymore. When he gets back, Lambchops has taken his seat and placed the popcorn bag on her previous one.

Goody definitely does not like her.

* * *

Things get worse—or better, nobody really knows—during one of Joe’s parties. They’re wasted as all hell, they have no idea what they are doing, and somehow they end up on Joe’s front porch with a half-empty bottle of cheap alcohol between them. Goody would be sprawled out on the grass right now if Lambchops hadn’t snapped at him to keep it together, for God’s sake.

Goody is trying to ignore the alcohol when Lambchops finally speaks up. “Where’d you learn to fight like that?”

“Uh,” he starts. “Sorry?”

“Your punches are heavy and you move slow, but you don’t get knocked back easy. Did you use to go against lighter opponents?” Lambchops asks, grabbing the bottle before Goody can react and downing almost all of it in one go.

 _What a demon,_ Goody thinks, in his hazy mind. _Fucking love her._

“I… yeah, you could say that,” Goody says, because he’s going to have to answer sooner or later. “I mean, I got into fights with everyone. But this guy had it out for me, and he was the polar opposite of how I fight now, so I guess that’s why I’m… like this.” He pauses. Just to be polite, he asks, “How about you? Ladies don’t fight like the whole world is against them most of the time, do they?”

Lambchops snorts, which looks terribly natural on her. “A girl’s gotta learn how to win a fight when a guy lands the first hit.”

“They hit you first?”

“I’m no lady to them.” She sneers. For a moment, Goody thinks, _fuck, she’s beautiful._ And then he shakes the thought away—it’s likely the alcohol thinking. “Also, I stole their girlfriends right in front of them. Ladies liked _me_ , for sure.”

“So I’m a lady?” slips out before he can stop it, and oh God, now Lambchops is looking at him like he’s crazy. Goody shakes his head, and simultaneously hides his growing blush. “No. Wait. I mean—oh, fuck it all to hell.”

“So, what, that time at the restaurant and the musical—” Lambchops finishes the bottle before Goody can reach for it. He lets his hand drop to his side sadly. “Did you know Tyrone would ditch and that Schlomo wouldn’t come?”

Goody stares at her, mind not totally catching on until he realizes he’s talking about the times Schlomo had tried to set them up together. “Oh, Christ, no. That was—Schlomo did that. He was trying to set us up. And… I don’t know if it worked,” he mumbles. Great, now he’s _shy_. Isn’t alcohol supposed to make you fearless? Or at least give you the “I am going to make many terrible decisions right now without any hesitation” thought process? Maybe it did the opposite with him.

“Set us up?” Her nose wrinkled in confusion. “Oh, what the fuck, then why didn’t we just do this?”

She leans in. For a few seconds, all Goody can taste is cheap alcohol and a faint metallic tang of blood—Lambchops’ teeth are biting down on his lower lip, and God forbid he make an embarrassing noise now or she will never let him live it down.

He, of course, makes a sound that could have been a whimper. Lambchops holds it in for all of one second before she breaks the kiss and bursts into laughter. “Oh my God,” she chokes out between peals of breathless laughing, “oh my God. What was _that?_ Big ol’ Goodman King, making a little baby animal noise—either you’ve got it bad or you’ve never kissed anyone in your life!”

“Oh, shut up, Grace,” Goody snaps, but his heart isn’t in it. To be more specific, his heart’s shot up to somewhere around his throat, and every word he speaks makes his lips tingle like he can’t quite get rid of the feeling of _her_ mouth on his and—Christ. Maybe he should just be a poet or a lyricist; this kind of sentimentality is more of Schlomo than him.

Lambchops shoots him a look that tells him that she knows exactly what he’s thinking right now. It’s horribly unnerving. “I thought you were married to your precious burger anyway,” she says, smirking, waving the empty bottle around dangerously close to Goody’s head. It doesn’t even occur to him to flinch away from the weapon. The only thing he registers is the little curl of her lip—before, he’d wanted to punch it off. Now he kind of wants to kiss it.

He just stares at her. “You’re divorce worthy,” he says dumbly.

Lambchops rolls her eyes and kisses him again. The other memories are rather vague, but when Goody wakes up, he’s still on the front porch, and Schlomo is forking over a thick wad of money to a smug Carmen. “Oh, fuck,” he mutters. It’s cold outside.

“Double fuck,” Lambchops grumbles beside him. “Do I at least have my clothes on?”

**Author's Note:**

> a testimony from a friend (also incidentally a real life goody) (no really she played goody in our school's production of fame):  
> "Ok wait i reflected  
> I love the ending  
> SCHLOMO and CARMEN R such poops  
> I LOCE THE START TOO  
> SHET THE BURGER SCENE THATS SO TRUE"


End file.
